Perfect Crime
by Oceania
Summary: Perfect Crime: No warnings, really. Prequel to Homecoming which is a prequel to Psychedelic Hollow..
1. Default Chapter

Perfect Crime

Chapter 1

Itsmeocean@hotmail.com

Day One- 8a.m to 11:00a.m.

The alley is a place I am familiar with- a dead-end lane just opposite Mr. Pizza where I had languished away most of my teenage years. When I was a little boy and dad brought us to Mr. Pizza for our favorite pizza, I always feared looking out of the window pane and into this alley, afraid that a ghastly floating head would suddenly appear and that its eyes would catch my face and come for me later in the night when I was asleep, under the illusion that I was cloaked in safety, warmth and love.

Silly phobias, dreamt up by an overly imaginative mind. But Joe has always been much more inventive when it comes to these horrifying images. He even seem to somewhat relish in them, often suggesting that we explore some house rumored to be haunted during the hours when the metaphysical world is most turbulent- twilight to four in the morning- and most definitely, he will bring along his video camera.

Gosh, I miss my kid brother. Nonetheless, he isn't here. He hasn't been here for the past four years.

But now, officially an adult, I'm back here, facing my demons. The current situation makes me wonder if I had premonition abilities as a kid, branding this alley as a 'bad place'. Instead of a ghastly head, I am now surrounded by the thick, redolent stench of murder. Bayport finest hasn't been able to make progress on this case, citing lack of evidence. It was with great reluctance that Chief Collig called my dad, who, unfortunately, is in England researching another case. Thus, I, the ever eager understudy, note my sarcasm please, agreed half-heartedly as well. I will always jump at any chance for a mystery but a mystery is inherently different from a murder case. If there's a homicide, there is an unjust, terminal fate for someone. My passion and earnings shouldn't have to be built upon anyone's misfortune.

Still, something in me resolves to bring injustice keeling and begging for mercy. I have no idea how altruistic this particular passion is. At times, it just feels egoistically good to have bested the best of criminal minds. After all, it takes an above-average intelligent being with sufficient creativity to pull off the most intricate crimes. And the rush in unraveling the complicated webs they spin is intoxicating- almost akin to mental heroin… you succeed and then you want more, more, more…just to know you're still king of the hill… . I do ramble so. The crime scene before me and my mind wanders. Looks like the king will soon be usurped by his own idiocy.

This case is jointly investigated by the local police and the NYPD since it was a homicide. Co-operation with me is their last resort. No suspects, no evidence, no motives- the woman, from the file I was given, seemed to be someone with a normal life, normal secrets and normal habits. By the usage of the term "normal", I mean no disparage. It has become my habit to classify the lives of people into normal and abnormal. I cannot really explain as the knowledge was tacit- but suffice to say that this lady had a happy family, a healthy social life and no dark hidden secrets- yet. It is always the dark hidden secrets that do us in for if there is one thing I have learned from my profession- it is that the best kept secrets are already known to everyone who cares to pry.

The deceased was known affectionately by the name Jenn, short for Jennifer Mason. Aged forty-five and happily married, she was a translator for some French company which had a branch in Bayport. Its office is along the same street as Mr. Pizza. During her free time, she liked to visit the gym and tend to her garden. On Sundays, she went to Church- not Bayport Baptist's Church, but a small congregation who bought a house down at Akline Street and called themselves Bearers of the Light. I don't know if BL's doctrines lean towards any major denominations' but it will definitely be information I will soon uncover.  She stayed in a townhouse along Aspen Drive, a street perpendicular to my turf, Maple Ave. I pass by it often and thus, have a good idea where exactly is the address. Jenn was dearly missed by her husband, Patrick Mason, and her son, John.

No evidence- that is what the report says. Or rather, no evidence tying anyone to the crime. During the time which the crime had taken place, no one was around the area. Mr Pizza closed at eleven at night but I know Chet, now a co-owner of Mr. Pizza with Mr. Prito, Tony's father, will still allow customers to stay until midnight. My best friend loves company and is getting pretty lonely at home as his parents left Bayport last year. Mr. Morton has been given an assignment by his IT consultation firm to oversee the setting up of a branch in New Zealand. Chet, having no girlfriends, is a lonesome man, pining for the days in high school. He didn't finish college- nope- with acutely keen taste buds and rather shrewd business acumens, he decided to plunge his time and life savings into Mr Pizza when it was facing financial crisis a year after we graduated from Bayport High. Business is now brisk and Chet is happy, re-living his teens via the boisterous youngsters who has appropriated Mr. Pizza as their chill-out place. It used to be _our_ chill-out place.

Ours- Me, Joe, Callie, Chet, Iola, Tony, Biff and Phil. Iola's sojourn in our world ended shortly. Biff and Phil has flown the coop for greener pastures. Callie works late hours at her marketing firm. Tony and I found somewhere else to rot idle time away- a place I jam at with a band I formed with some friends in college. Chet will join us sometimes when he isn't flipping burgers and making pizza sauce. Chet is the son Tony's father wishes he has.

I don't know where my beloved brother is- I wish I do. After he and a very pregnant Vanessa eloped with crucial assistance from yours truly. Besides the occasional phone calls and emails, we hardly keep in touch. I want to but he doesn't- it is difficult to hound after someone who seem like he doesn't even care anymore. Chet is always looking for ways to relive his teenage years- I am always looking back in time for ways things may have turned out differently- doubting my choice to help him then.

I feel like I have helped my brother out of my life.

How does everything morph to become a subject revolving around Joe who isn't even here? I shake my head, clearing it of sneaky regrets and the hurt of betrayal. Focusing my energies once again on this case, I know at once this is no Mickey, and is even more difficult because Joe isn't by my side, complementing my attributes with his. 

I set my kit down on the ground beside me. There is only a slim chance that I may glean something the police missed. The fact that this is an outdoor area makes evidence gathering much more difficult. However, I am not here solely for evidence. I have a ritual to fulfill.

By stepping into the crime scene, I am starting the chase. 

But running is difficult in winter when the cold numbed your brains and all you want to do is hibernate. It will be Christmas soon and then, spring. I always feel like spring cannot come fast enough- I really hate the wintry air, freezing everything into one startling, blinding white. And it doesn't help that before the body was found, about a night ago, there is some snowing. Footprints were covered over. Usually, footprints in the snow make excellent evidence and it is extremely regretful that we don't have that now.

Trudging through the snow, glad that the company hired to do general shoveling is being lazy, I walk over to where the blood from the victim is frozen, marking where she laid. The color is still pretty red, as expected. Against the whiteness surrounding it, the crimson blotch marks the lost innocence of this place.

Not that I ever considered the alley to be innocent. Red against white- it is the most striking contrast of colors ever.

I kneel down and claw through some layers of snow.  Still, I don't know what am I supposed to be looking for- where am I supposed to look. I'm just trying my luck. Yet, I will not count myself as even half as good as the professional CSIs. I am, after all, still pursuing my Applied Chemistry honors part time and goodness knows if I can finish it within the set duration. Somehow, the dual degree track is taking longer than I expect as I need to work to get my hands on some money. 

The alleyway will be pretty sheltered but I did some research with regards to wind direction that night. It was definitely a frigid night - I remembered shivering in my dinky little apartment, wrapped in three woolen blankets because my heater was broken. One day, I will be as rich as my dad and be able to afford decent housing, not that I'm terribly poor now. I am all right, I guess. I just hate to live with my parents- after I move out during my college years,  I feel that it was sacrilegious to move back to my parents' home for whatever reason.

The wind that night would be blowing into the alleyway. Thus, if there is any tiny evidence left behind which may be displaced, it will be much further into the gloominess. Carefully, I comb the area behind where the body was and the beyond, sifting through snow and beginning to doubt my intelligence. Didn't the police hit a brick wall with evidence gathering? What am I hoping to accomplish? 

The weather is too cold. I can't feel my toes. My self-confidence dips with the temperature and my fingers will soon turn blue and fall off. If I am lucky, my car will not stall.

And there it is. A fragment of a dark, glossy leaf half-stuck under a thin layer of snow and rather out of place with this plant-less surrounds. From the looks of it, it is thickly veined. Also, I noted that it is nothing like the flora scene in Bayport which is just about composed of green grass, maple and elm trees. Probably something from someone's garden. A foreign being.

Just like the body must have been. Out of place- something that shouldn't have happened.

With my tweezers, I retrieve the fragment as carefully as I can and sniff at it, regretting instantly as the tip of my nose touch it and is stung by its coldness. It has a faint fragrance though, most probably from the flower but I cannot discern its specie.  I take out a small white envelope from my kit and drop it in. A few routine checks later, I decide that there is nothing else to gather. 

And then I decide that I need something to chase away the frost gathering on my bones.

***

"So, I gathered you hadn't any luck in the alley?" Con Riley asks rather nonchalantly, sniffing as he speaks. However, I can tell by the prolonged look he has given me from the corner of his eyes that he's anything but cavalier. I sip the Irish coffee- a concoction made from the cuppa available from the vending machine in police station and a capful of Bailey's that Con keeps around and which I know about. Con is cool- in fact, sometimes, he reminds me of an elder brother- always watching my back for me in case I cross Chief Collig. Come to think of it, he has brown eyes and brown hair, just like me. Of course the shades and tones are different- I have always been told by Callie that my eyes can pass off as black during one of my dark, melancholic moods. She finds it sexy and mesmerizing when the color of my eyes deepen with my mood swings, and thus, I try to be broody and grouchy around her as often as possible, interspersing doomsday's predictions into our conversations, which drives her nuts. Girls, you can never please them.

Ah… Bailey's keeps me warm but makes me sleepy. Coffee, my best friend, negates the effects. Perfect.

"Found a leaf- sent it to the lab for identification. I took some pictures of it of it as well. Going back to develop them in my darkroom. You have the photos ready for me?"

"Yup. Not as gruesome as most but still… here they are." Con pushes a trusty manila folder across the table to me. I take out the contents, one grisly image after another, shots of the victim from all possible angles.

"Pretty woman… when she's not all blue and lifeless…why do you think she would be in the alley? It was a dead end and there wasn't exactly a party happening inside."

"We found a dollar note near her body. Maybe it flew inside and she wanted to retrieve it."

I cluck my tongue. Such a waste- A dollar! A dollar for my life! Under no circumstances will I think it wise to venture into a dark alley at night. Scrutinizing the photos, I spot a ring of discoloration around her left wrist and, remembering that she was married, find it odd that she isn't wearing a wedding band. I point out the discoloration to Con Riley.

"This is not written in the report. You guys missed it? I thought it was reported that it wasn't burglary or rape. But something is definitely missing. In fact, two things- she should be wearing a ring."

"Hmm… it must be a grave oversight… lemme see…" Con Riley hunches over the work desk, looking intently at the photo, "Looks like a bracelet of some sort. Interesting wave-like design too…"

"Yes, like it was a tight fitting bubble… what about the ring?" 

"We noticed the ring first, or rather, lack of- the husband said according to their church's doctrines, they are not supposed to wear jewelry."

"Like an extreme form of Lutheran?"

"I don't know. Have you visited Bearers of the Light? I haven't but I heard they are quite an interesting bunch." Con Riley shrugged, "But yah, we should have noticed the discoloration. Maybe she was restrained?"

"No, she was clearly taken by surprise. Probably looking for the dollar bill and then the assailant stabbed her from behind and left her to bleed to death," I circled the purse next to her body with my little finger, "Nothing taken from there?"

"Nothing, I guessed. The husband said everything seemed intact. She had a hundred in cash with her- her credit cards were all present… everything."

"But not the bracelet or whatever she was wearing so tightly around her wrist _which_ she was not supposed to wear, if it was a bracelet."

"Right." Con Riley concedes lowly, a sign that he's hoping I will stop rubbing it in. But I am not. I am, well, just being cynical about the effectiveness of our crime scene guys.

"Insurance?" I ask, setting the photos down. Con Riley smiles at me mirthlessly, understanding my one word question perfectly.

"We checked. She took out a policy two years ago. Standard life insurance- should she be maimed or permanently disabled, she would get the payout of thirty thousand. But since she died, the money goes to her beneficiary- her husband."

"But we have nothing to link the case to him, except that he's her husband? Is he in financial trouble?"

"Nope. No previous criminal records either. Sounds like a pretty clean guy- he's after all a pastor."

That's one thing about Con Riley I cannot figure out- despite the fact that he has been dealing with all sorts of criminals since ten years ago when he was twenty-two years old and fresh out of college, he still has very naïve assumptions about people in general. Or maybe I am really becoming too skeptical. 

Hmm… . Nay, I am skeptical. He is naïve. 

"I think his occupation doesn't necessary have to reflect his morals." I comment, trying to sound casual. However, he hears the sarcasm and ricochets back against his chair, as if I have just thrown him a punch in the solar plexus.

"Sounds like someone got off from the wrong side of bed."

"C'mon Con, there are news about parents, teachers, priests, imams, monks, pastors, etc doing things they shouldn't do… forget it. I don't want to debate about this. What else do we have on this woman and her husband?"

Con raises a brow and mutters, "Sheesh, sorry for trying to_ incite _you into some moral debate. Whatever you want on the woman that we have is in the file- her work place, her employer's name, her address- "

"Just checking to see if the Chief told you to withhold anything from me."

"Nay, we are helping one another anyway." With a dismissive wave of his hand, Con throws my doubts and subtle accusation out of the window. I don't believe him though. Chief Collig always felt like he has something to hide from my dad even when he has sought my dad's assistance in cases. It is as if all he wants us to do is to break the dam and let the police carry on with the rush while we retreat to the sidelines.

However, I know that Con will, in his rather clever way, hint to me explicitly enough such that I will be aware of any information that I am not supposed to be familiar with.

I stand up, tucking the manila folder with the photos under my right arm. Con Riley hasn't said I can borrow them, I figure that I will just assume approval is given and walk out with them. 

"All right then, I should be going now. When the lab report comes out for the leaf, give me a call immediately." 

"Erm… okay… ah… the photos…"

"Oh, I'll be back with them. They are copies, right?"

"Yes, they are… well, keep them until you have no use for them anymore." Con Riley waves me on and suddenly let loose a huge sneeze. I bless him.

"Don't worry about me." He rubbed his reddening nose violently, "You should talk to the husband and visit his church though. Rather interesting congregation we have there. And one more thing, the sleeves of her blouse had a slight tear to it. It's in the file, pay attention to it."

There is the hint. I have no idea why the Chief will want him to be tight-lip about it. After many years of wrestling with the Chief in some cases, my father has drawn the conclusion that the Chief is just jealous and want us to grovel.

"Thanks, Con."

"No worries, Frank." Con smiles at me, "Just don't tell Chief about the Bailey's- I know I'm a policeman but my profession doesn't always have to reflect my work ethics."

I chuckled gruffly, "No probs. Unless you turn out to be a drunk."

"Unless," He repeated after me smilingly.


	2. 2

Chapter 2

Day One- 11:30 a.m to 4:22p.m

I have a couple more hours before lunch and thus, I guess I will drive over to Aspen Drive and pay the husband a visit. With his wife's body still under examination, I figure that the funeral will not be commencing too soon. The handsome Victorian-style townhouse is aesthetically pleasing- complete with a gorgeous front garden, a tower and witches' cap. A little boy, dress in multiple layers of clothing with a yellow beanie covering his head, is sitting on the steps leading up to the front patio, playing quietly with some action figurines, his expression almost mournful. I park my refurbished '82 Corolla across the street and walk briskly over. As I am approaching, the boy looks up and gazes at me with large, green eyes, his dull expression tugs at my heartstrings as to see stark sorrow on such a young face is to witness a crack in childlike innocence.

For a while, I grieve as well- but I grieve for the boy.

I wonder if is safe for him to be playing alone in the cold without any apparent supervision. Nodding my head towards the door, I smile at him as gently as I can.

"Hey big guy… is your dad in?"

He blinks at me once. Other than that response, it is almost as if my presence paralyzes him.

"I'll like to speak to your dad. I'm a private detective, like Dick Tracey… you know Dick Tracey?"

Man, I think I'll go stick my head in the oven for such a nerdy introduction.

"He can't hear a word you're saying." A man leaning over the window's ledge addresses me, "What do you want? And leave my son alone."

I reach inside my coat and draw out a card from my shirt's breast pocket. Walking up to him, I decide to be a little more sophisticated in my second introduction.

"I'm Frank Hardy, private investigator. I've been… well… requested to look into this case. This is my card…"

"I heard about your dad…come in." He leaves the window presumably to unlock the door for me, ignoring the card I offered. Dang, everyone knows my dad. I have such big shoes to fill even though technically, my feet are a size larger than dad's.

Sticking my card back into my pocket, I am rather pricked that he doesn't even bother to at least give my card a glance. However, it is understandable- he must be grieving. And if he isn't, he must be preoccupied with other matters like guilt and fear.

He opens the door and steps by me to scoop up his son. I do not know what to do as he brushes past me back into the house with the boy who's looking behind his shoulder at me with those disturbing eyes. Throwing a glance back, he indicates with a swipe of his head for me to follow.

I wait in his living room while he settles his son somewhere.  His house smelled of fresh paint and varnish, and thus, I surveyed the walls casually- they do not look bright or clean enough to be recently recoated and then I notice the window sills, the doors, the borders of the mantelpiece and the cupboards- their colors are matching- ebony, shiny and reflective- he has just restore their luster.

In addition, pictures of a loving family line up on the mantelpiece and a wedding album is left open on the coffee table.  A huge cross hang over the couch I am sitting on and I realize that there is no television, no radio and no CD rack. Instead, the centerpiece of the living room is an unassuming table with an open Bible which is bracketed by two flickering tea lights.

"I'm sorry, I had to coax John to sleep." Patrick Hutson reappears with two glasses of water in his hands, "And we only have water here- no sugared drinks or alcohol. I hope you don't mind."

Patrick Hutson, now that I have the opportunity to take a closer look at him, is a comely man with pleasant features mar by the melancholy of loss. His thin lips seem pulled down by some heavy, invisible weight and the dark circles under his green eyes should be recent. Taller than me by an inch perhaps, and a size leaner, he is wiry, neatly dressed in chino pants and collared t-shirt, and has a rather graceful gait in his walk. He sits down on the armchair perpendicular to the couch and left the drinks on the coffee table.

"I don't. Is it a teaching of your church? I mean, the drinks, the television or lack of it…"

"Yes. We believe that we should eliminate temptations or proximities to temptations as much as we can." Patrick replies softly, "But I know you aren't here to discuss our church's doctrines. I told the police what I know."

"I understand, Patrick," Those hated clichés roll off my tongue, "I'm sorry for your…"

"No, you don't understand. How can you? You aren't the one who lost… ." Patrick trails off, dropping his head forward, his chin resting on his chest, "Jenn's like my right arm and the love of my life. She's a devoted mother, a loving wife, so thrifty, always looking out for the family… everything a man can wish for and more. Now that she's gone, I'm… I'm…"

I decide that I can't offer more consolation than I have done- anything I say will just sound empty and hollow especially since, right now, Patrick Hutson is my no.1 suspect- my only suspect. No, make it worse than hollow- it's almost downright hypocritical.

"So, Patrick, did Jenn always work late nights?"

"Lately she did. A few nights before… before her… she came back home at around five a.m. She was always very conscientious in her work. I disapproved sometimes but it was never a huge issue for us..."

I make a mental note to visit the office. The man's increasingly distraught countenance is making me a little guilty, like I was trespassing into his mournful, private world even though he has, after the initial icy greeting, tried to make me feel welcomed.

Nonetheless, the questions must still be asked.

"Did Jenn wear a bracelet? There's an imprint of sorts around her left wrist. I understand that your church's teaching forbids displays of jewelry…"

"We forbid displays of wealth. Jenn wore a bracelet recently out of vanity, I guessed. Our teachings are very hard to follow and most of the congregation broke a little rule here and there but as long as they do not go overboard, we are pretty lenient. But Jenn, being my wife, had to set an impeccable example. She bore the responsibility perfectly until she came home one day with this bracelet. I told her I disapprove and we argued for a little while but she took it off- her faith won over her vanity and we celebrated her victory." Patrick smiled fondly at the memories, "It was quite a celebration- we prayed, gave thanks and retired early. We always wanted a second child."

I clear my throat, a little uncomfortable now because he is almost confiding in me like I am his friend- I don't want to feel too close to the subjects of my investigations because I don't know how the cases will turn out. You can pick your cases but you cannot pick the truths behind them. A sense of detachment, I realize throughout the years, is actually better for my clients and for me- it makes me more effective and efficient. Becoming emotionally tangled up in any case actually impedes its progress and colors perceptions like nothing can.

However, it's difficult as to obtain information, I need people to confide in me and therefore, I will inevitably be drawn into their personal lives. It isn't like I don't care- I do. I just have to hone the skills that will allow me to not let emotions rule my head- to keep cool under pressure and to be impartial.

"How recent is recent?"

Patrick knits his thick brows, "I don't know… a month? I'm sorry, I really can't remember the exact date."

"It's all right." I mutter, noting down key points in my trusty PDA. A month- the imprint will mean that she wore it just before her death- the killer had taken it off and kept it as a souvenir most probably.  Jenn might not have being "delivered" from her "vanity" as Patrick believes. My stance is that the stricter the rules, the greater the desire to rebel.

Did Jenn rebel? The church does sound like it has a rigid, fundamental doctrine that is almost suffocating. She most probably might since the onus on her as the pastor's wife was even more daunting.

While the insurance angle is interesting- the amount of thirty thousand really does not seem enough to warrant murder. Yet, nothing should ever come as a surprise to me. I wrestle with the decision for a moment before deciding that it will be better if I do some "checks" on Patrick's financial status before sending his radar whirling prematurely.

"I think that will be all for now- I may drop by again." I conclude, an instinctive wave of concern sweep past me when I see that he is shaking, on the verge of unbidden tears, "I'm truly sorry for your loss. It's probably like the most difficult thing to do right now but do take care of yourself so you can take care of your son too."

"I know…" Patrick nods before rubbing his face brusquely, "Thanks… I'll… I'll see you to the door."

I leave his house and head straight for Mr. Pizza, needing a break and the closeness of dear friends. Chet is there, joking from behind he counter with some girls in their late teens. He sees me enter and waves, "Hey Hardy! Long time no see!"

"We just had dinner two nights ago, Chet." I drawl, making myself comfortable upon a counter seat, "A Cheesy Pizza, coke and salad."

Chet grins at me and gives me two thumbs up before hollering into the kitchen. Pressing his palms down flat on the countertop, he tilts his chin towards me expectantly.

"What?"

"You have something on your mind?"

I shake my head, "No. Must I have something on my mind to come in here, say hi to my best friend and order a pizza?"

"You don't have to but you usually do." Chet comments sagely, stretching his stocky frame to full height and cracking his knuckles, "I'm tired. It's no joke running a restaurant."

"Maybe that's why Tony refused to go into his family business just yet."

"Family business? I'm half a partner, you know, and my last name's Morton…" Chet wrinkles his nose, "Hmm... think Mr Prito will demand to adopt me?"

"He just might and your parents may enjoy their new found freedom so much that they are actually agreeable." I jest with a serious mien. Chet chortles out of loyalty to me rather than actually finding my joke humorous.

"I think I'll break up with Mary soon." Chet remarks suddenly. My coke arrives then and is handed to me by a cute, bouncy waitress. I sipped it, waiting for Chet to continue. Mary is his latest girlfriend and to me, she is a doll. Yet, I have seen it coming- Chet needs someone who enjoys food as much as he did. Mary doesn't seem to eat.

"Well… different values… what she sees as fatty and disgusting, I see as delicious. Somehow, we got into an argument yesterday over my latest pizza creation- you know, the one you raved about with all the salami, mozzarella, bacon and my secret pizza sauce? Well, after that argument, she just repulses me."

"Right. Never try competing with a guy's first love." I eye my pizza hungrily. The waiter delivering it is moving rather slowly. Chet steps aside to allow him to set it on my table. Cheesy Pizza is one of Chet's first creations since he joined Mr Pizza and it soon became my personal favorite. I don't know what exactly constitute the recipe but it sure lives up to its moniker.

I devour the first slice voraciously. Cheesy Pizza is enough to raise a dead man from his grave just for one final bite.

"I'm glad someone enjoys my works of art." Chet grins and punches my shoulder lightly while I offer muffled grunts of agreement in between chomps. A large group of rowdy high school kids enter the restaurant and Chet throws me an apologetic look.

"Sorry man, the crowd is really picking up and we are short-handed… you sure you don't have any troubles to unload onto my ears?"

I shake my head, understanding completely. Anyway, just that short banter is enough to thaw my frozen spirits. Chet claps my left shoulder twice before leaving the counter to attend to other customers. I finish up, swipe the crumbs off my shirt and leave the money on the counter. Waving at Chet, I bid him farewell and don on my coat hanging on the rack near the entrance to brave the darn cold again.

 The French company that Jenn worked for is a consultation firm- I have always wondered what they do. Do they provide some form of psychological assistance to companies facing emotional bankruptcy or betrayal? I don't really care at that point. Callie, the business student, told me once that some companies outsource their market research to "consultancies" because they do not have the time. I remembered booing the notion for shouldn't research be the most pertinent step to take before embarking on any venture? And if so, how can a company "not have the time?"

I step inside NovoLex and is immediately greeted by a sophisticated looking woman most likely in her early thirties. She has her blonde hair done up in a classic French bun and her power suit is immaculately pressed. In fact, I feel like a pauper just walking up to her even though I know the disparity between our incomes is perhaps too narrow to be worthy of concern.

"How do you do? I'm Frank Hardy, private investigator, and I need to talk to Jennifer Hutson's immediate supervisor," I hand her my namecard, "I believe the name's Julian Woolsthy? I don't have an appointment, just trying my luck here."

"Jenn? Oh…" A shadow falls across her sharp features. She narrows her eyes and screws her lips up, as if wrestling with some indecisions, before speaking to me in a low tone, "Normally, you'll need an appointment but I'll let him know you're here. Hold on."

Making myself comfortable on one of those bright yellow couches in the lounge, I flip through a financial magazine while keeping an eye on the receptionist. She is on the phone, speaking in a hush manner to the person on the other line- Julian Woolsthy perhaps. Glancing up for a second, she sees me looking at her and smiles awkwardly before covering the mouthpiece with a manicured hand, "I'm sorry, you may have to wait a while."

I throw her a lop-sided grin and shrug. She goes back to the phone conversation and starts jotting down some notes. Just as I am onto my next article about business opportunities in the Middle East, she calls my name and motions me over.

"Mr. Woolsthy's not free right now- with Jenn gone, well, he had to take over some of her duties. But here's his direct line and you can call him anytime to make an appointment. He said he'll be freer tomorrow."

"Can you tell him it's urgent?" I lean over the desk and look at her straight in the eyes, "After all, it's about the murder of one of his colleagues. Just a couple of questions…"

She scratches the top of her head with her little finger absent-mindedly and from her discomfiture, I know she can't be more helpful than she already is.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Woolsthy is rather strict on not meeting people without a prior appointment- he likes planned schedule, you see. Why don't you call him an hour later? He's with a client and he may be done then."

I sighed, inaudibly, and thanked her for her troubles. After all, she has done her best. Folding the paper neatly into my wallet, I leave the office and head for the church at Akline Street. Someone there may be able to tell me more about Jennifer Hutson's lifestyle. Sometimes, solving a case is more about uncovering the hidden aspects of a person's life than about discovering the identity of the perpetrator. With the dark corners are lit, anything and anyone hiding inside will naturally be illuminated.

The church is actually a two-storey bungalow and the area to the side where most families may install a small pool is covered with poured concrete, complete with a basketball hoop. Three young men, two Caucasians and an African American, are shoveling snow away from the cobbled pathway which runs all the way from the side gate to the main doors. They aren't talking or joking with one another, as Joe and I will if we are saddled with such mundane chores. Rather, they look as if they are putting their heart, mind and soul into their task, shoveling away earnestly.

"How are you guys?"

The African-American stops and looks up, smiling widely, an expression which in such direct contrast to his grimness as he is working. I am taken aback and honestly, I am not feeling at ease. However, I keep my smile on as I shove my hands into my coat's pockets.

"We're fine, brother. How are you doing?"

"Good, I guess. Can't complain," I gesture to the almost cleared walkway, "You are doing a good job."

"Thanks. We try our best. You missed the service by a few hours but can we help you with anything?" He asks, dark brown eyes piercing into my own. I draw out my card, wondering if they are trained to be that friendly to all strangers.

"I'm Frank Hardy, private investigator…" A little tired of my opening line having used it for the umpteenth time today, I made it a point to brainstorm for more creative introductions, "and I'm here regarding the murder of your pastor's wife, Jennifer Hutson."

Immediately, the three boys' faces fall. They turn to one another, creepily communicating silently with varied motions of their eyes. The spokesman for their little group thus far extends out his leather-gloved hand to me.

"I'm Keith," He introduces himself and we shake hands. I realized his gloves are made of polyester, not real leather.

"I'm Lenny."

"I'm Ben."

I shake hands with each of them and they lead me into the house. Studying them closer, I notice that they look older than I first thought them to be, most likely in their early twenties. In fact, when I enter the house and we took off our coats, I notice that the sweater Lenny is wearing underneath his jacket has bright orange crest of the University of Bayport sewed onto his breast pocket. The dull gray color of the college's sweater is at odds with his natural red hair. The youngest has to be Ben, if one judged solely by looks and vibes. Keith is definitely the leader of this small pack. And between Ben and Lenny, in their eyes, Ben's emanates more naivety.

But I didn't really bother myself with too much analysis- firstly, it was too early to tell. Secondly, if they are not pertinent to the case, I will have wasted mental energy. The house has been renovated to fulfill the needs of the church. The walls are white and the furnishing bare and simple-it almost has a sanitary feel to it. Just across the foyer is a barred double-door- most likely leading into a hall where the congregation gathers for services. It is pretty hot inside- somebody's heater is working extra hard, and thus, I feel like taking off my sweater as well but decide that it is too much of a hassle to be walking around like a clothes rack. Keith leads us upstairs and into a room where we intrude into something like a prayer meeting.

"I'm sorry, Anna." Keith apologizes to a comely brunette with slightly graying hair who appears to be leading the prayers, "This is Frank Hardy and he's a private investigator. He wants our help with Jenn's murder."

Anna is already eying me with curiosity and so do the rest of the people sitting around a small oval table in the meeting- about five of them, all middle-aged and simply dressed. A pudgy, smiling man stands up hastily.

"You can sit here. We will all help our kind brother here, won't we? He's send by God to bring to light our sister's unjust dismiss!"

"Amen to that!" Another lady with closely cropped hair remarks and murmurs in approval saturate the room.

I smile and graciously accept the seat which is right next to Anna. The man claps me on the back and sits down with the boys on the chairs line up against the wall. Anna beams at me, her green eyes sparkling with innate intensity.

"Hello, I'm Anna Blaine."

Rejecting my offer of a handshake, she substitutes by nodding politely in greeting. The rest successively introduce themselves. The man who has given up his seat is Albert Norm and the lady who just praised the Lord for my presence is Hilary Bash. To my left is a painfully shy man with thick glasses named Melvin Nobo. In addition, there is a motherly looking Alicia Cromwell, a gruff-voiced trucker who told me to call him Bubba and a sweet-faced lady, not much older than me probably, called Ursula Higgins.

The men shook my hand but the ladies didn't. I guess it has something to do with their church doctrines again.

Anna scrutinizes my card as I am handing out to each of them, "Hardy's Investigations. Well, good firm. I have guessed from your last name. You're Fenton Hardy's son?"

"Yes, do you know my father personally?" I ask candidly. Many knew my father by name only as he is pretty infamous around town. Hmm, I sound pretty moronically arrogant to myself. I just hope I don't look like some smug kid in the playground engaged in the megalothymic favorite game, "My dad is better than yours,"

"Nay, I only heard of his name. But good firm. If I need PI's services, I'll call on you guys too. We were just offering our prayers, asking God to heal the hearts of those affected by Jenn's murder and to bring the criminal to justice… and forgiveness. Then you came in… so you must see why we are so excited by your presence."

"Thank you…" I smile and withdraw my PDA, "Ahm, well, actually I want to ask you kind people about Jenn. What was she like?"

"Oh, Jenn was an angel. I mean, as you can tell, our church is very strict but in her position, it was stricter still. We look up to Pastor Huston and his family as model examples, you know." Hilary answers in her reedy, slightly piercing voice, "I just can't believe anyone will…"

Silence befalls the group. I look around at each one of them, prompting them with an arch of my left brow.

"Well, bad things happen to good people. We have cried enough but let's rejoice instead! Jenn's in Heaven with God now. It should be a moment of celebration." Anna voices out to the approval of the group except for Ursula. The latter stares at the table- her lips quivering not from the chill of winter or the force of tears. She seems like she is mumbling something to herself.

"Ursula?" I call her name to gain her attention. Her head snaps up and she gazes at me blankly.

"What?"

"You seemed like you have something to say."

"Oh, it's nothing. Anna's right. Jenn's in Heaven. After all, we believe that we are saved by faith alone, not works."

I know this to be a common Protestant stance. However, the way that Ursula said it seems to harbor some implicit cynicism. Suddenly, I sense a blanket of discomfiture settling on the group's spirit and thus, I decide not to press her on. I may get more out of her definitely if I talk to her alone.

"Sister Ursula, we are saved by faith and by faith, our works will all be made good." Hilary comments, her tone slightly cautionary. Lenny snorts, to the surprise of all present, including me. Nonetheless, I am surprised because the group strikes me as a herd of sheep in perfect solidarity and Lenny vocal act of defiance is a little unexpected.

"What if a man kills in the name of God? Does that make his murderous action good because of his faith? And will not that contradict the commandment?"

"You know what I mean, Brother Lenny." Hilary clucks her tongue, "I mean by faith, we will all be inspired to do good works."

"Ah… okay…now I understand. Thank you, Sister Hilary, for bringing the light to me." Lenny bows slightly and Hilary seems pleased. I decide against noting down the under currents of this discussion which, on outward appearance, is about their teachings. I know it to be extremely important such that jotting it into my PDA will warrant suspicions from Anna who is watching hawk-liked from the corner of her eyes. Casually, I pretend to dismiss it by bringing the discussion to Jenn's lifestyle again.

"Sorry to break this interesting discussion but can we bring this back to Jenn?"

"Oh, our apologies… well, Jenn was really sweet and wise. She was the woman of faith- submissive to her husband, loving, gentle, devoted. She helped out a lot with church activities like flag day, worship sessions, carnivals…" Albert scratches the back of his head, his features wrinkles up with serious contemplation, "Too many, I can't remember them all."

"She gave us French tuition." Lenny speaks up, "A couple of us…" Lenny motions to himself and Keith who nods slowly, "takes French modules in university and she helped us out."

"Yes, we meet here after service twice a month to banter around in French." Keith elaborates. Lenny smiles at me mirthlessly and I feel as though he is trying to reveal something to me through his silent language.

"She was a great person. I thanked the Lord for honoring us with her presence in our lives. We are thankful that we knew her and sorry that she left us. But we must rejoice for she's in Heaven now." Anna remarks in finality. Melvin raises his head up timidly.

"Ahm, does that mean that we give thanks for the man who killed her as well for he sent her into Heaven?"

Lenny, Keith and Ben sound like choked chickens in their bid to stifle their laughter. Anna smiles strenuously at Melvin.

"No, Melvin. We have gone through this. God can make miracles out of a terrible fate but it doesn't mean the perpetrators are sinless."

'Oh…" Michael trails off, "I was just wondering. If God has a plan for everything, then the man could be part of God's plan to bring Jenn to Heaven."

Ursula mumbles again but I cannot catch anything. Albert pushes his glasses up his nose, in deep thoughts again. I gather that he is the thinker of the group.

"Well, that could be something to think about. We shouldn't condemn the man after all… he's still God's creation. I think Pastor Huston, when he's feeling better, will have a better explanation. He left for home after the service- poor man, he's very distraught but he still fulfilled his responsibility as a Pastor. We are all behind him.'

Anna beams at me and this time, I thought the smile is pretty faked, "Have you any more questions? We will all love to help. I'm sorry if we diverted to theories and faith matters at times."

"It's all right. I'm not really into theologies… but I got what I needed. Thanks for all your time."

"You're welcome. If you like, we welcome you to our services and prayers meeting anytime. You look like a man searching for the Light and we are here to help bring it to you."

"Thanks, Anna. I'll think about it. And thank you all again. I'm sorry if I have intruded in on you." I stand up. They smile at me and in the midst of well-wishing and blessings, I left the room and the church. Somehow, even though the initial stance of the group is to help me out as much as they can, with Lenny's and Ursula atypical remarks in stark contrast with the "Praise the Lord" and "Jenn's an angel" rhetoric,  I sense a defensive shield being set up around something…


	3. 3

Chapter Three

Perfect 

Day One- 4:40p.m to11:38p.m.

I wish we have a real office. The address on my name card points to my family house since dad works from home. However, I work from_ my_ flat and the heater barely exists. It isn't much warmer than outside and I need to don on my heavy coat. However, despite all the cold comforts, I have broadband and dad isn't exactly cruising on the digital highway yet and thus, for that mere difference alone, my dingy flat far surpass the old Tudor.

Soon, though, I'll be up there with my dad, taking on international cases and getting discounts and freebies just by introducing myself as "Hardy, Frank Hardy." It's good to have a goal.

I have grabbed Ursula's details from the internet and am logged into UB's network to gain access to the administration department. I used to work there on a part-time basis when I was still an undergraduate and I was given access to students' records because I was the one doing data entry, that sort of routine chore. After I have left the job, they still haven't changed the password and have neglected to delete my log-in ID. I have long decided not to let them know about my surreptitiously awarded privilege.

Honesty's such a rare virtue nowadays.

"Baby…"

Shocked, I turned slightly to find Callie hovering over me after setting a mug of hot, aromatic coffee beside my notebook. She wraps her arms around my neck and starting pasting butterfly kisses on my cheeks.

"You've been working since you came back. Let's cuddle. I miss you."

I won't be the saint and tell you that I haven't' felt the stirring of lust. My friends often look up to me as a man on his way to sainthood because I attend church two times more often than them annually. However, I look upon myself and see only a hypocrite when it comes to matters of faith. I know the teachings of my faith and I am forever wearing them on my lips. The private truth is that I have made so many compromises that some sinning no longer twist my stomach up with guilt. In my teens, I may have felt a little bad about a little B&E to obtain evidence. Now? I justify it as a necessary evil. Am I right? My guts remain staunch on this subject.

Turning away from my precious notebook, I glance up at her. She leans over and kisses me on the lips. I pull away to hurriedly finish my task.

"Tempting… let me finish up something first."

She pouts and disentangles herself, bringing a spare, folded chair to sit next to me. As I vapidly scrolled down the page on the screen, she leans her head on my shoulder and asks me dully.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking at students' records for a Lenny who takes French."

"So you won't take long right?"

"Nope, five more names to go… here it is- Keith Joshin and Lenny Cranell…. Darling, pass me my PDA."

She grabs my PDA from her side of the work desk and hands it to me. I jot down the details and, when I have finished, she took the liberty of shutting down my notebook.

"It's cold. We should cuddle." Clasping my hand and she stood up purposefully, attempting to drag me to my springy bed, "I am tired."

I leave my PDA on the table and struggle up, blood rushing down my calves to my feet as I had been sitting for far too long. I hobble along after her, pins and needles shooting up my left thigh. She let go of my hand, plops down on my bed, and extends out her hands to me.

"Hold me, stud." She grins flirtatiously. I lunge at her playfully and we fall back onto the bed, bouncing against each other to the rhythm of the creaky springs. She giggles as I brush aside the loose strands of honey blond hair covering her lovely face- yup, I am literally a breath away from Heaven. If only Ican let her know just how much she means to me.

"I love you." I whisper, sounding a little harsh because I am suddenly overwhelmed by emotions. She plants a soft kiss on the tip of my nose.

"I love you too."

"We look ridiculous, wearing our coats."

"Blame your heater."

"I've got thick blankets…" I drawl, arching my brows suggestively, "And I believe since I hadn't been working out regularly recently, my body fat just went up a few percentages."

She giggles again and pushes me away. We aren't going to win any awards for gracefulness in shedding our coats, however, we don't give a damn. Soon, we are hiding underneath my wool blanket and quilt. Spooning her protectively, I nuzzle her left earlobe, knowing that she is about to drift to sleep.

"I love you, Callie."

She tilts her head back slightly and smiled dreamily into my eyes. I kiss her forehead and watch her as she snuggled back under the covers- watch her until her rhythmic, deep breaths lull me too to sleep.

I manage to make an appointment with Julian Woolsthy. We agree to meet for late dinner, to Callie's displeasure. She left for home and I guess her parents must be surprised to see her home early on a Sunday. I absolutely adore my girlfriend- she cares enough to be peeved whenever I can't be with her but because she cares about _me_ more, she knows in these times, my job comes first. I rather have an honest expression than a pretentious smile.

In the end, she will let me go. She knows too she cannot do anything about it- _I _can't do anything about it.

We have arranged to meet at a new steak restaurant too insignificant to name. In this hip part of town by the river, restaurants turnover rates are high because the rental rates are astronomical. To pay for the rent, the prices of the items have to be relatively matched and thus, when the quality cannot cut it, the restaurant is destined to die a fast death.

The new place isn't half-bad but it isn't fine enough for the area. Because it is new, customers are naturally few. Bayportians are not exactly adventurous when it comes to taste and to infant restaurants great disadvantage, the elder generation with more spending power and time for fine-dining have almost indestructible trust in long-standing establishments. Making ourselves comfortable at a corner booth, I hand the waitress the menu after choices are made.

"So, Mr. Hardy, what do you want to know about Jenn?" Julian Woolsthy cut to the chase, tucking the napkin into his collar as he makes his query. I shrug and smile at him openly.

"Everything I guessed."

"That's what you investigators all want to know- everything," he shoots me with a short, cynical laugh, "Even you want to know everything, you'll have to be specified. I don't know where to start."

"All right, fair enough." I grin back, trying to keep it light-hearted. Julian doesn't appear like a hard to please sort. Fair-haired and blotchy-skinned with a dash of pepper on his sideburns, he seems under a lot of pressure. His hair has been raked through with fingers countless times until it is all mussed and greased up; his rumpled shirt and crooked tie somehow makes his designer suit look seedy.

"Has Jenn's departure taken a toil on your workload?" I ask off-handedly. Self-conscious, he gives himself a once over and smiles shakily.

"Yes and no. The projects she was handling had tapered off somewhat. It's my own work that's hectic and now, added with hers, even more so."

"I know. I tried to translate some stuff… well, from German into English, before- a paragraph took me half a day to get it as accurate as I could. Did Jenn always work late nights? What about her projects? Any sensitive information involved?"

Julian glances at me weirdly before sipping from his glass of water, "You don't ask just one question at a time do you? Well, I guess they are probably related. Yes, Jenn did work late nights before. However, in the recent months, she no longer did so. And all commercial projects are sensitive- it's only to what degree. Hers didn't hold information worth killing over."

"Patrick, her husband, said she kept late nights in the office." I probe. Julian sits up straighter, shrugging cavalierly.

"I don't know. Maybe she did and the reason why I never noticed is because I keep later nights, stuck in my little, stuffy office, isolated from the rest of my colleagues. However, I'm pretty sure her workload isn't that heavy in recent months- we need a French translator and there are not many around here so she had a lot of bargaining power. But yah, I was going home on some nights and I saw her car in the car park."

"So she's in the office?"

"Can't affirm." He looks past me, smiling gratefully, "There's our food. Let's eat first. Talk shop later."

Thankfully, he is a fast eater, as am I. In between bites, we make some small talk and he jokes about how once he had almost hired my father to spy on his ex-fiancée but couldn't afford the fees so he did his own spying instead to disastrous results. In truth, Julian is funnier than his harried expression suggests. I do not see any wedding ring on his finger and he seems to be single still. Maybe his work life is the main culprit to his bachelorhood in his late forties.

He is done as I am polishing off my last bite, and took the liberty of ordering a cup of coffee for each of us. As the waitress clears our plates, he hides his face behind a serviette and uses a toothpick to clean his teeth. After he is finished, I resume the task of "talking shop."

"Are you sure you haven't seen her in the office after work hours recently? And how recent was recent?"

"Hmm, a couple of months? Well, I did notice her dressing more fashionably though, wearing jewelry and stuff. Her church doesn't allow these things from what I've heard. I guess sometimes, when the rules are ridiculously confining, people tend to rebel more often than not. Can't judge though."

"But you saw her car?"

"Damn right I did. Maybe she parks there for free when she had something else to do nearby? You know how Bayport is with all these lousy parking meters showing up in every possible corner. Free parking lots are almost out of existence already. But in our office basement car park, all workers park for free. Hey, this joint is a couple of streets away from my office but do you see me driving here? I'll rather walk and save me some money."

"She has close friends in the office?"

"I don't know… maybe the Paula, the receptionist. And even then, I wouldn't say they are close. Paula likes everybody and Jenn had a smile for everybody. She used to be genuinely nice but after she married the pastor, talking to her is like listening to those annoying evangelistic tapes. I have nothing against people who 'spread the word'," He parenthesized, "But when it's too much, they can be downright pushy and annoying."

I chuckle lowly, knowing what Julian meant exactly.

"Then, suddenly, those evangelistic sessions stopped. I think it coincided with her dressing up more. Talking to her was normal- you know, how you would usually talk to colleagues who are not your friends- shallow, full of hollow laughter."

"When did this occur? When she stopped working late as well?"

"Kind of...I can't remember." Julian sips the coffee which just arrived, "We did this dinner in an hour and thirty-eight minutes. Quite fast, even for my assessment. Anything else you want?"

"Nope, that's enough. Thank you." I reply, genuinely grateful. Julian smiles, waving at me dismissively.

"You know, I will consider Jenn a half-friend… we had times when we confided into each other about work and stuff. I hope you get the killer soon and just lay this to rest properly."

I return home from the dinner with a lot on my mind- Jenn not working late nights but having her car in the office basement car park; Patrick thinking erroneously that his wife was at work when she wasn't. No one yet could tell me where she went. One of the more logical assumption will be that she is having an affair.

It doesn't take me long to figure out that the answer may lie with Lenny or Ursula. Or that they can piece the puzzle for me a little better so I can glimpse into Jenn's suddenly mysterious life closer. But it is late and I am tired. Tomorrow is Monday- another new day, another new week.


	4. 4

Perfect 

Chapter 4

Day Two 9:00a.m to 2:00p.m.

Last night, after threats of replacements, my heater sputtered out its last burst of energy and was working fine through the night. However, this morning, just before I woke up, it died, never to be resurrected again by violence or emotional blackmail. I can totally understand how it must have felt because I know I can be one tough slave-driver.

Callie and Tony promise to help me out with my heating problem. Exploiting Tony for the privileges he get by working in Bayport Mall is one of the things I do well and enjoy executing. Nothing like preferential discounts- I will get plenty of that once I become famous and rich, and have the whole criminal world bowing at my feet! Once the euphoria pass, I spot my "date" waiting for me. I squeezed in between some tables to get to her- this café on the outskirts of Bayport is rather small and out of the way. It takes me an hour's drive to get there but Ursula has been insistent about the meeting place- I deduced that it is because she fears running into someone she knows.

Finding the café though is easy once you know the route. Its bright neon sign is something the brothers and sisters from Bearers of the Light can easily adopt. Ursula is dressed like ninety percent of the young women in Bayport- light made-up face, short skirt, fake mink coat, high wool stockings and, yes, jewelry- but I raise no brows. BOL is pretty silly to think that a few stringent rules and regulations, coupled with threats of hell, are able to persuade people from not wanting to feel good about themselves. In a way, these are the Christians I don't like the most because in their nut-sized brains and hearts, they ignored their faith's teachings on love, mercy, compassion etc. and instead, perverted it into some form of organized, extremely fastidious institution with the threat of the fires of hell hanging over everyone's head. Their invasive rules and regulations numbered more than the collective amount of hair they have. How then are their followers able to live a life of love? How then will the followers know they believe because they _believe_ and not because they _fear?_ How then is the sweet scent of truth able to gently waft through the miasmatic fear?

Fear and love, to me, cannot co-exist.

I return to the task at hand. She seems nervous though, shaking not just from the chill. Sitting down opposite her, I disarm her with a smile as open as I can muster and she seems more at ease, relaxing her tensed up muscles.

"Hi. How are you?"

She fidgets slightly, stirring her coffee, her green eyes fixed on the cup as if it is the only thing that matters to her in the world, "Ahm, fine. What is that you want to see me about?"

"About Jennifer Hutson. I can't help but feel that you have something to say yesterday about her which may shed light in this case, Ursula. I am hoping you can help me out."

Ursula diffidently looks up at me, her eyelashes fluttering anxiously. Shaking her head, she goes back to staring at her coffee again. Maybe there's a mini-television hidden in her coffee cup.

"I don't know what I can help you with. It's just rumors, you know. I heard of them and I just wondered..."

"What kind of rumors?" I press gently. Perhaps out of habit, Ursula's eyes darts around the café before she leans a little forward and whispers almost inaudibly.

"That she wasn't the model of the woman of faith, that sort of things. I don't know if Pastor Hutson knew about the rumors flitting about but if he does, he doesn't show. Anna refused to let us discuss it too. Anna's one of the spiritual leaders in our church and she says that gossip is bad."

"I don't think you're gossiping in this case by telling me. Do the rumors have any sort of specifics to them? Like, why did they say that she wasn't a woman of faith?"

Ursula puffs her cheeks, "I dunno. But I caught one of the younger ones joking about it with someone else who rebuked him..." Right then, she looks straight into my eyes, a picture of extreme seriousness, "You didn't hear this from me, all right? I like Jenn, she was nice to me and if this will help you, I don't really care. I overheard Lenny laughing one day with Ben in the pantry, saying something about maybe Pastor Hutson wasn't giving Jenn 'any'. Then Albert happened to chance in upon them and scolded Lenny for joking about people's sex life before proceeding to give the boys a lecture on the sanctity of sex. That's all I know. Maybe you'll do better talking to Lenny."

"I intend to, thanks, Ursula. By the way..." I point to her baubles, "I thought your church's doctrines forbid you to wear jewelry?"

Her timorous countenance melt then as she giggles from the thrill of breaking some rules, "Oh, that silly thing. I don't wear it in church but since I work outside Bayport, no one really sees me during the day. I like our church's teachings but it can be a little too strict, you know, and sometimes I question but we are told not to question the wisdom God bestowed on our revered pastor. And leaving it can be tough. I am trying to but my life has revolved around the church such that to leave will be to cause a part of me to die."

"But you're not exactly truthful to the teachings..."

She glances at me questioningly, "Must we be truthful to teachings to stay in a faith? What if you think that teachings are wrong but you have faith in God?"

"Then I'll go someplace else where the teachings sound right in my heart. I think we all have an instinctive gauge in our hearts if we have not been brainwashed completely- for faith is about teachings as well. If something runs too contrary to the basis of the faith we think is the truth, then the something cannot be of the faith."

"Oh, the teachings are not wrong- just a little too strict for my liking. I'll get there eventually, to be a pious woman and all. But I'm only twenty-seven, you know. I want to look pretty and feel good about myself." She quickly interjected me. I can understand the bonds snapping her back to defend a teaching that I can tell she is already having trouble reconciling with because God have given a brain to think for herself, rather than blindly following somebody "bestowed" with unquestionable wisdom.

I smile at her kindly, "I think there's nothing wrong with wanting to doll yourself up."

She laughs lightly, "My boyfriend thinks so too."

I order a cup of coffee and a piece of croissant. We make some small talk- Ursula speaks freely about her job as a salesgirl in a small lingerie store, and about her boyfriend who is a Buddhist. The irony is that the difference in the two peace-centered faiths somehow managed to cause tension between the both of them. Ursula stops at that point, blushing furiously. I guess she thinks she has said too much.

In her awkwardness, she fingers her necklace. I gesture towards it and ask casually.

"Does anyone else in church wear jewelry?"

Ursula throws me an odd look, "Funny you should ask. I think I actually saw Jenn with a bracelet once- ahm, she was near the gates and I saw her unclasp a bracelet from her hand before stuffing it into her handbag."

"Was it recent?"

She nods, "Quite. It seemed like an expensive thing too for I remembered the diamonds shining into my eyes even though I was quite some distance away."

"As in it was covered with diamonds or it just had some diamond stones set on it?"

"Covered with diamonds most probably. I really can't tell. But I noticed that it was quite a slim bracelet- those hard kind, not the soft, chain-liked ones. "

I reach out and pat her hand out of habit. "Thanks, you are more helpful than you know."

She snatches it away, blushing furiously, "Sorry about that. In our church, we don't hug or hold the hands of the opposite sex... it's like..."

I nod, "I know. I've done some research."

"But I hold my boyfriend's hands all the time and we make out sometimes, nothing serious, just comforting. By all definitions, I'm probably one of the worst followers."

I reassure her, "I'm pretty sure you're not. I've learned from experiences that those who keep pointing fingers at others usually point three more back at themselves."

Chuckling lowly, she nods vigorously in agreement with me. As we finish up with breakfast, we engage in more comfortable banters in between bites. The more we talk, the more forthcoming she is with her personal life and the more I sympathize with her because even though it is clearly evident that she has deep faith in God, the ways of BOL seems so at odds with her own values and inherent beliefs. Touching on the tenets of BOL appears to cause her to withdraw a little from the conversation and I can't help but think she may find greater joy somewhere else beyond the stifling lifestyle that even Jesus, most likely, didn't have endure.

University of Bayport- my turf- will always be remembered as the place where I truly encountered a semblance of pure, unbridled freedom- freedom with time, freedom with assignments, freedom with thoughts and opinions, and freedom to find oneself amidst all the background noise. Next semester, I will be graduating with my honors in Applied Chemistry and unlike Criminology which I have obtained a first class, I will be lucky to even scrap by with Second-Upper. Studying and working concurrently is no joke- shuttling in between cases to the lab and lectures has been particularly draining. However, in the event that I can't cut it as a professional private investigator, this combination may grant me to postgraduate studies in preparation a career with the CSI. I am practical and I know what my chosen profession needs. Anyway, I have always loved chemistry and haven't blown up any labs or killed any lab partners yet.

Our University is old but it did not start off as one of those full universities. It has evolved over the years thus, it is commonplace to see spanking new glass buildings settling comfortably right next to old, Victorian structures on its grounds. If there is a running theme for the architecture, it is "Chaos." However, in this hodgepodge series of architecture co-existing together in unity, I find beauty and a physical testament to change and progress which doesn't leave the past forgotten.

I have called Lenny and am glad that he's in- some students will have gone back home for the winter break and I am kind of testing my luck, which is good thus far. His hostel is an older one with moss repainting the beige walls green. As a full-time student before, I have thrown caution and reason aside, joining a fraternity instead. Assured by the sense of solidarity but disgusted by its egotism and boastful pride, I left by the start of my second year and rented an apartment with some friends. I don't know what I preferred but I definitely have not had the privilege to experience hostel life.

I climbed the stairs up to his room and pray that he will be receptive towards me- the impression I have of him is that he is a sarcastic, cynical Arts student with the habit of trailing his words off with an annoying dry twang. Upon reaching, I don't have to knock- his door was wide opened.

"Hello, Mr. Detective. I know somehow you'll grovel for my help." Lenny greets me from behind his study desk without looking up from his computer. His choice of vocabulary aside, his tone actually sounded neutral. I step inside cautiously, noting that he has a flat mate who doesn't happen to be around. With the space between the two beds acting as no man's land dividing the room into two roughly equal halves, the showcase is a schizophrenic affair- order on one side and anarchy on the other. I am surprised to find Lenny on the "ordered" side.

"My roommate is very messy. All he cares about are his babies..." He left his desk and walked across the room to drag his roommate's study chair over to his side for me, throwing the clothes draped over it on the floor, "So I have to be extra tidy, just to balance things out."

"You two get along well?"

"Well, quite." Lenny casts a disgusted look at his roommate's area, "But when he gets too messy, I feel like beating him up."

I laugh, in spite of myself. Lenny sounds a little like Joe at that moment. Once Joe and Chet had to share a cabin when we went down to the river as Vanessa opted out at the last minute and Callie didn't want to sleep alone. He complained incessantly that he wanted to punch Chet's head during the night because Chet snores kept waking the _both_ of them up. For a second there, I wonder how Joe is doing but shelve the perpetual concern aside for the task at hand.

"So, what do you want?"

I draw out my PDA and smile at him lopsidedly, "Do you mind?"

He shrugs, leaning back against his chair in an easy manner, "Go ahead, record down everything you want. You should have a tape recorder instead of a PDA... isn't recording easier?"

"Depends on the individual. Let's get down to the point. First of all, thanks for doing this. And secondly, I heard that there were some rumors floating around about Jenn which you may be able to illuminate for me."

"_Illuminate? _Hah, now you're talking like one of us. If I'm freer, I may try to convert you." Lenny snorts. I can tell he isn't at all serious about evangelizing.

"You don't sound like you're very into the faith at the meeting." I remark. Lenny shakes his head.

"You got it wrong. I'm not _into_ Anna. I'm _into_ my faith. I may challenge a lot of the ridiculous _laws _being laid out but I _believe_ in a lot of things that it espouses, especially the part about doing your best to not bring yourself or others into temptation. And as for the rumors..." Lenny smirks, "Some of our members are too puritanical for our liking. All I'm saying is that Jenn must have found some new love- doing up her hair, wearing that sacrilegious bracelet etc etc... and Albert gave us a tick-off. The rumors were about Albert ticking me off but somehow, as it spread, the limelight fell on Jenn." Lenny twisted his lips.

"Even the pious cannot resist some tasty gossip to chew on."

"How close were you to Jenn? She gives you tuition?"

"Sometimes she comes over to my room to give me extra lessons- we keep the door open though." Lenny's cynical expression broke and a fleeting look of sadness flashed across his blue-green eyes, "She's a great tutor. I know she probably has a hidden agenda teaching me- giving me private lessons and all but she's... I'm sorry...I've been speaking about her in present tense... I mean she was great."

My interest piques at the mention of _hidden agenda_. I loved hidden agendas- those are the things cases strive on. "What other motives could she have for tutoring you?"

"Well, she comes in here, teaches me and I introduce her to my roommate. They hit it off and banter about faith about the time. My roommate's very rich. Heard of Adreana Valerio? The owner of the famous Italian restaurant chains, Valerio's, in New York State? He's her son, Angelo. Get him into our church and wham! Funding!"

"Where's he?" I ask, "Gone back home?"

"No, probably with his girlfriend in North Port..." Lenny catches himself, shaking his head, "Sorry, I just assume he had a girlfriend in North Port. He always drives up there, sometimes staying for the weekends or so."

Angelo Valerio- roommate, got along well with Jenn who was most likely sent to convert him because Lenny was probably not up to the task. I take note of all these and it is then, my subconsciously wandering eye catches sight of some textbooks strewn on the floor.

"Is Botanical Science one of your majors?"

Lenny gazes lazily at the pile of books, "Oh, those. Nope. I ain't smart enough to get into one of UB's most _prestigious_ department," he parenthesized 'prestigious'. I have a feeling he has a disdain for everything authority and elitist which makes me wonder why, like Ursula, he is still with BOL. "Those are Angelo's and when I mentioned his babies earlier on- I meant his plants. He studies Botanical Science and Bio-Engineering- I think his majors are heading in the direction of genetically engineered plants or something creepy like that. I don't know... weird stuff to me. I'm a lowly Arts Student who doesn't do anything but waste taxpayers' money and make life interesting by protesting everything and anything."

I suddenly recall something about North Port which is actually a small town just above Bayport, about twenty kilometers northeast of the University. It used to be part of Bayport many years back but the community has since grown larger and a few years ago, it broke away from Bayport.

Also, more importantly, I remember the leaf. I haven't check it out yet because I don't know where to start looking but I'm sure the boys back at the police laboratory will be able to come up with something if I give them some clue. I nod at the books and glance at Lenny briefly, "Mind if I just browse through them?"

"Sure, go ahead. Look at whatever you want. I don't care." Lenny shrugs and sits back in his chair, eying me cavalierly.

I kneel down next to the pile of books- they sure are well-used. Either they are pre-loved or Angelo is a conscientious student. Yellow post-it notes are stuck to the pages of one of the books- a journal about greenhouse tropical plants and, out of curiosity, I flip through it. Sometimes, serendipity seems orchestrated such that one can reach a breakthrough just by random chance. Unable to suppress a slight smile when one of the post-it notes lead me to a section on the cultivation of Beaumontia Grandiflora- Herald's Trumpet, I scan through it, my smile elongating as I read the description of the plant and study the picture.

Powerfully perfumed huge white flowers shape like trumpets surrounded by thick-veined, glossy, dark-green leaves.

The match is almost perfect although I can't be a hundred percent certain as it is only a fragment of the leaf that I've found. And there must be plenty of other plants out there with similar kinds of leaves. But because it is Angelo's textbook, that he has marked the page and that Jenn was getting closer to him, it definitely qualify as a lead.

"You know where's Angelo and if he has a greenhouse around here?"

Lenny curls his lips up, "Nay, you can try Northport."

I arch my brows. Right. Try Northport. Knock on every door of the approximately population of ten thousand and hope Anglo answers one of them. Cracking my neck, I place the journal back carefully and hand my name card to Lenny.

"If he comes back, tell him to give me a call."

"Like he will." Lenny chuckles lowly, "It must be bad luck for him if you want to find him."

"Just tell him I need his help in identifying a plant." I deadpan. Thanking Lenny, I make my way down to the Department of Botanical Science. Lenny's right to say that it is one of the most prestigious courses to get into. I wouldn't claim that the University of Bayport is a top-notch University; in fact, some of its departments are mediocre, if you are feeling particularly lenient in your assessment. However, it is excellent for its Applied, Marine, Botanical and Social Sciences programs, the last included Criminology. The only Arts program worth spending time in is perhaps History, as Bayport has always been a town which, even as it looks forward, is fascinated with its own heritage.

The Department of Botanical Science occupies one of the older buildings to the back of the University. To get to the department, I have to walk past a few greenhouses which protected the plants from the wintry conditions. As I hurriedly make my way there, I called Con Riley, asking him if he could get some experts to compare the fragment I have found to the leaves of the Herald's Trumpet. To an untrained eye like mine, there are only similarities. But a botanist will be able to spot the differences.

In winter, most of the University's departments would be closed but someone would always remain behind in the DBS to look after the plants, 24 hours a day, every day. DBS too have a nickname we non-DBS like to refer to it by- Department of Bull Shit. It isn't meant to sound crass of course but we figure that they may need a lot of manure and manure is effectively bull shit.

I am wondering who I may approach as I walk along the hallway of the first storey of the department when I notice a door which is slightly ajar. Well, it may be sign thus I pace towards it. Echoes of my footsteps reverberate from the end of the hallway and back, sounding hollow and eerie. I realize just how empty the University is. Whoever is in the office must have heard it too for she swings the door fully open and sticks her head out, putting on her glasses which are hanging around her neck.

"Can I help you?"

I smile and hurry over. From the plaque on her door, I am informed that she is Professor P. Marion. The memory wheel in my head turn and I recall that she has won some award for Bayport growing super-size desert roses during my second year. Yes, I know. It is pretty amazing the amount of facts which get stored in my memory bank whether I want them to be deposited or not.

"Hi, Professor Marion. I am Frank Hardy, Priv..."

"Yes, yes..." Professor Marion hastily rushes me, giving me a brief once-over with her wrinkled gray eyes, "I know who you are. The whole University knows who you are. You are the first person in many years to obtain a first class honors for Criminology here and your father is Fenton Hardy, owner of Hardy Investigations, right?"

"Yes, except that I'm now co-owner as well." I try to sound casual but somehow am betrayed by the tone of boyish pride in my voice. She hears it as well for she smiles slightly, almost mockingly. The combination of steel gray eyes, graying brown hair pulled tightly back into a bun, pale skin and unruffled skirt and blouse outfit makes her seem more imposing than her small frame which I estimate to be no more than five feet four inches.

"Well, then, what do you want?"

I sum her up to a lady of little time and lesser patience for niceties. Thus, I flash the pictures of the leaf fragment in front of her, arranging them into a fan, and smile as politely as I could.

"I am hoping you can help me out here. Could you identify from which plant this leaf could have come from and whether the University grew any of it in any of its greenhouse?"

She casts me a curious look before taking the pictures from my hands and narrows her eyes in contemplation.

"I cannot be sure but they aren't native to Bayport, that's for sure. It's winter now, nothing's growing except evergreens around here."

"If I say it could come from a plant called Herald's Trumpet, will you agree with me?"

"Beaumontia Grandiflora?" She twists her lips this way and that, "Why, they are tropical plants... but yes... it could come from the Trumpet... looks a little like the leaves but they could look like a dozen and one other plants too since all you have here is a fragment. And the Trumpet's very rare. " She hands the pictures back to me, shaking her head apologetically, "Sorry. You can do a DNA match though. DNA identification, as you know, is not just a tool to identify human corpses and culprits."

I slip the photos carefully back into the inner pocket of my coat and smile at her tediously," Yes, I know. But if it does belong to the Herald's Trumpet, where may I find it around Bayport at this time of the year?"

"From the florist if you order it really early and are willing to pay a lot of money for it? Or you can find some growing in our tropical greenhouses all the way in Northport."

"Northport?" I keep the excitement bubbling in my stomach away from my response and succeed this time, sounding like someone who is only curious, at least to my ears, "We have greenhouses there?"

"Yes, we needed to expand but there isn't enough space here for more greenhouses. A lot of our students come from Northport so we thought we may want to open up a second campus there for some of the sciences but it hasn't come through yet as the directors hasn't approve. The greenhouses are there though- our students make use of them. You'll find them along Saint Lucia to the west of Northport- you cannot miss it, not with the sun reflecting from the glasshouses and into your eyes." She gesture around as if trying to paint me an air map. I haven't updated myself with the happenings in my University as I come here in the evenings purely for lab and then, all I want to do after is go home and sleep.

"Thank you, Professor. See you around. The plants are lovely, by the way. I walked past the greenhouses here on my way here."

It is then she smiles wider and her eyes actually twinkle, "You saw the desert roses? They are extremely beautiful this year."

I don't know if I have or not because I would not be able to recognize it. I just thought I'll throw in some random compliment as she doesn't seem like she is testing me with any trick questions.

"Yup, amazing."

"Looks like there's some hope still for you." She nods her head, studying me cryptically. Cold, skeletal fingers seem to be stroking my spinal cord. I shudder.

"Desert roses are tropical plants too. If you need to know about them, call on me anytime. You can get my email address from the University staff database."

"Sure... no probs." I reply noncommittally, "Have a good day."

"Yes, good day to you too. If you make your down to the greenhouses at Northport, you will find Professor Stuart there at Carhig building, level 3, room 3-01. He can help you." She bids me farewell, sounding fifty degrees warmer than her earlier tone.

I stop by a quiet diner and order some piping hot soup, fish and chips, and hot coffee, slowly taking my lunch as I note down everything I have discovered thus far into my PDA and scan through them, hoping to see some discernible links. Maybe Jenn was killed for money. Maybe she and Angelo became lovers. Or maybe she crossed Angelo, and Andreana Valerio, a reputed dragon lady, decided to take her out. I think I have watched too many episodes of Sopranos. However, if the second scenario is true, then I have just given myself two likely suspects.

Angelo and Patrick.

Before I can give my mind a good workout, my cell phone sang. Accepting the call, Con Riley's low, rather nasal voice greets me. His cold is worsening and I almost pity him.

"We got an expert to identify the leaf, Professor Marion from the University. She was shocked when we called on her..." He pauses for a moment, as if he expects me to comment on something. I merely wait for him to continue.

"She said it's a definite match but she said identifying the leaf doesn't identify the plant it came from and we need to use DNA. Any samples that you found which we could test against?"

"Not yet..." I drawl, sipping my coffee, "Maybe you can check with the florists in town to see if any of them ordered in Herald's Trumpets recently and sold them to anyone."

"Sure, in fact, we are a step ahead of you. We are already doing that. You?"

"Oh, I'm checking out some greenhouses. Maybe adopting a new hobby. No, seriously, the University has got some greenhouses in Northport and kept some Herald's Trumpets in them. I'm going there to see if I can find anything. Secondly, you will do good to run some background checks on Patrick Hutson and Angelo Valerio... he's the son of Andreana Valerio..."

"Of the restaurant chain?"

"Yes, of the restaurant chain. Seems like Jenn was pretty friendly with him- trying to evangelize him into the church because of his money."

I can almost hear the clockworks clicking against one another in Con's mind as the silence prolong, "Hmm, how did you find that out?"

"She gave tuition to some of the University kids in her church. There's this particular one, Lenny Cranell, whom she gave private tuition to in order to get to know Angelo Valerio who's his roommate. Glanced through his books and found a journal on tropical plants with post-it notes stuck on the pages relating to Herald's Trumpet. I read the description and saw the pictures and that was why I asked you to find out if the fragment I found was indeed part of a Herald's Trumpet leaf. In the meantime, you'll want to check out Patrick Hutson's and his church's financial status as well. For them to go after Angelo's conversion the way they did, I smell something fishy."

Another pause.

"I'll see what I can do. You find out what you can."

"Sure. Bye." I disconnect the call and leave the money on the table, snapping my fingers to gain the waitress attention. She sullenly walks over to collect the money, brushing by me rudely as I make my way out. Good customer service is rarer than sightings of UFOs. Just a little peeved by it, I drive all the way to Northport blasting my radio to almost full volume.

It is jazz and thus, I can't be guilty of noise pollution.


End file.
